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Years are gone. Maybe decades. I just don’t know anymore. I don’t remember names, but I remember faces. Hundreds of them, thousands. They flash by in a steady stream, each and every one blurred in pain and fear, their screams always shrilling at fever pitch. If I were human, I would have lost my mind already. But then there’s the woman, earthy and warm, wearing clothing from another time. She is the one that comes to me most often, and the only one who smiles. She speaks a forgotten language, one that I myself can barely recall. She appears from time to time, whenever I feel I can’t take it anymore. She smiles at me, and I try to smile back. Then, I see her inevitable end, forced to watch her pretty face freeze into the identical terror of the others, sinking back into the screaming swarm until she is unrecognizable from the others. I don’t know who she was, and more than any of the other faces, I’m sorry that I was the one to cause her pain. So ******** sorry, but what difference does it make?
March 7th, 2082. 7:13 pm. Darla Andreev pushed out of the stifling air of the diner, sweat collected on her brow from the crammed, over-heated environment. She’d entered the joint by recommendation of a friend – one she’d surely not trust again – dressed appropriately for the chilly March weather, but found herself peeling back layers as people bumped and jostled her from all sides. She’d wanted nothing more than to dash outside with her greasy food, and down it in the cool of the street - but squeezing through the crowd proved more difficult than sitting in it. Now, as she strode down the sidewalk, she treated herself to deep breaths of cool night air, wool coat still over her arm, letting the frustrated heat evaporate into the dark. This was her favourite time of the day – the tantalizing bite of night air mixing with the glowing traces of day. Darla took steady strides down the sidewalk, high-heeled boots clicking like a drumbeat, feeling her muscles relax, the agitated crease between her brows smoothing. She tilted her face towards the sky, watching the CN tower flash cheery colours overhead, spotlights dancing between the faint stars. This is home, she thought. This is where I belong. Life had been difficult for most of Darla’s life. People had changed – the world had changed. Something like hell had been unleashed on gasping and defenseless children. No one could possibly have been prepared when things only from the wildest imagination became flesh, and brought down their fires on the Earth. But still, humanity endured. Scrambling, screaming, but still with uncanny instinct for survival. Still, they did not escape unscathed. For life, a price was paid. Darla’s grandmother spoke of a time before this all – a time when all was as it should have been. So many people! Billions of them, she said. Living, thriving, walking the night without fear. There were flowers, trees, animals... The night. The night used to mean so much – yield so many possibilities. But now? It was snatched from them, and ruled by the frightening dark. Darla shook herself from her thoughts. She was young in the last city in the world capable of a little fun. Lights still flashed in the sky, people still laughed with the sun on their faces. Who could ask for more? The smell of food poured into the streets, and Darla let it all wash over her, easily restoring her optimism. She couldn’t help but glance into every restaurant window, melancholy over all the food she could have enjoyed tonight instead. She felt like she’d wasted her evening... but was more determined than ever to redeem it. Darla glanced at her watch. She had a good hour and a half left before lights out. Her eyes scoured the streets for the perfect way to enjoy herself. There were clubs, places Darla knew well and could list the quality, atmosphere and available booze of each and every one. She spent many of her evenings here – a horrible dancer, but completely proud of it. Tripping over her own feet also brought many a helpful man to her arm. She loved these places like her own home, particularly the exclusive Azrael on Woodland Road. These were the places where Toronto thrived to its fullest, and places where the gloom and doom of the modern day disappeared for a while. But they were rarely places she visited solo. People had become dangerous. Life… was dangerous.
Whatever they put me on... I still wonder about it. It’s amazing that they finally found something that could contain me – but I suspect they had a fair amount of time to come up with it. A half-century at the very least. It’s a miracle drug, casting my mind from my body and locking it away. I could think, but I couldn’t do, and soon I became so detached that I no longer felt my body is a part of me. I know this should be maddening, but a large chunk of my brain urges me not to care. I wonder if I’m insane yet... and I wonder if I’d be able to tell. They started lowering the dosage. I could feel it, if not see it. They’re scared that they’ve shoved me over the edge, and I’m not coming back. Whatever monster I am, I’m still their little science project, the closest to divine power they’re ever going to get on Earth. They want that power, whether to control or worship it, that’s their prerogative. The former is wishful thinking, the latter is futile and bordering on Satanism. Either way, they don’t want me gone. They’re trying to ease me back into their reach, leaving out a breadcrumb trail of regained power... but really? I don’t think I want to come back.
7:56 pm. Darla circled around the four block area she frequented, seeking a place spend her last few hours in the nightlife, but nothing seemed to catch her interest tonight. Still, she kept walking, growing increasingly agitated as the light faded, and the evening slipped away. If she returned home now, this night would be an unforgiving failure after a horrible day. She glanced at her watch, and frowned. The hour was nearing a close, and she’d have little time before the city curfew set in. Already, people were bidding hurried goodbyes and hustling away, giving themselves a safe chunk of time before they had to be home. The neon signs in store windows began to flicker off as their owners closed up shop, adding to the settling gloom. Darla plopped down on a sidewalk bench, knowing she’d wasted precious time. There was nothing left but to go home and board up for the night. She heaved a sigh, and picked herself off. If she went now, she could walk leisurely and get home with time to spare. Might as well. Darla was two-thirds home when she spotted the glowing lights of a convenience store – seemingly the only one still open. She started towards it, then stopped, with another glance at her watch. Could she make it? Sure, she thought. Plenty of time. And so Darla set off for a chocolate bar to condole her crappy night. It was as she was crossing the street that it happened. A stupid thing – something that happened all the time, but no one ever thought it would to them. She saw the headlights, she heard the squeal of the tires. A moment after she’d realized what was going to happen, it did, and she was flying. She wasn’t killed, not even badly hurt - just skimmed and shell-shocked. But all that mattered was the moment her skull connected with the pavement, and the crushing dark that settled into her mind. The dark that kept her from running home with everyone else as the final minutes ticked away.
When Darla came to, she opened her eyes to a new kind of darkness. The city was plunged into shadows, every light off, every window boarded up tight. No dogs barked, no people laughed. The empty streets rang with silence. No, she thought, scrambling to her feet, her palms bleeding but gone unnoticed. No. NO! Her head swung - from the blow, from her own terror. She'd the missed the curfew. She'd missed the last half-hour countdown, the final hysterical rush for home, the siren and loudspeaker warnings. Instead of being holed up in a house that could have survived a nuclear holocaust, she was out in the streets where no one would open their doors. Could she run? Hide? Would she have time? All Darla could hear was her own frantic breathing, as crushing, binding panic set in. Her wide eyes searched for... something, anything. A unexpected shelter. A selfless good Samaritan. An act of God. Anything. Anything! A phrase came to her suddenly, a phrase so clichéd and laughable, its meaning had dulled. But now it hit her with painful force because tonight, it was true. All hope is lost.
Twisted Black Roses · Sat Sep 19, 2009 @ 08:26pm · 0 Comments |
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